Ever So Humble
by Signy1
Summary: Episode tag to 'Cuisine a la Stalag 13.' LeBeau came back because he had to. He's not happy about that- not happy about a lot of things, really. Including his own behavior. He's got a lot of thinking to do, and a lot of decisions to make. He needs to process, to readjust, and that takes time and privacy. Naturally, he's not going to get either.


LeBeau looked around the barracks. They hadn't improved any in the few days since he'd left; if anything, they seemed worse after his time with Marie. Somehow, he'd almost forgotten the way the wind whistled through the plywood walls, the feel of the splintery tabletop, the smell of fifteen close-packed men who had been wearing the same clothes for days on end.

Somehow, he'd almost managed to forget the way captivity made everything feel cold, and hopeless, and gray.

He walked to the stove. The coffeepot had an inch or so of inky sludge at the bottom; even by stalag standards, it smelled wretched. He wondered who had been brewing the stuff. Probably Carter; he made truly dismal coffee, but no one else was much better. Kinch was a wizard with coffeepots once they'd been converted to radios, but lethal with any other sort, Newkirk never quite managed to forgive coffee for not being tea, and the results showed it, and the Colonel… well, he was an admirable man in many respects, but he did seem to labor under the delusion that coffee magically replenished itself in the pot without the need for human intervention.

If the coffee was this bad, he shuddered to imagine what their meals had been like. Yes, they would have starved without him.

_Formidable._

He didn't want to be a cook for the rest of the war. He wanted more than that, wanted to be more than that. He wanted to contribute something meaningful to the liberation of France. And yet, Hogan's promises notwithstanding, he had a terrible vision of his future, and it involved endless Kraut dinner parties and batches of strudel as far as the eye could see.

All right, all right, yes, those miserable dinner parties had resulted in reams upon reams of important information winging its way towards London. And yes, bribing Schultz with cake was far easier, and far more pleasant, than trying to deal with some of the more… dedicated guards. He remembered some of the _cochons_ they'd been saddled with in the past. Bauer and his truncheon. Stein and his strip-searches. Bachmann and his whistle. He grimaced, remembering. Engel and his wandering hands.

His friends had all taken it in turns to wheedle, cajole, and otherwise persuade him to stay in camp. None of it had budged him an inch. They had pointed out that his escape could easily mean the end of the operation, and they had been right. No one had quite come out and said it, but it could easily have meant the end of them, too. And he hadn't cared.

That was the simple truth. He hadn't cared. He'd been so focused on getting away, on getting out of the damned kitchen, on joining DeGaulle and his Free French comrades, on satisfying his own need to be part of the fight, that he hadn't had a thought to spare for his friends, or the price that might have—_would _have_—_ been wrung from the ones he'd left behind.

And now he couldn't think of anything else.

What made it worse was that no one else seemed to be thinking of it at all. They had welcomed him back with open arms. It was not even that his abandonment had been forgiven and forgotten; they didn't seem to realize that there had been anything to forgive in the first place, and it only made him feel more of a Judas than he already did.

He left the barracks, rambled aimlessly across the compound. As usual, it was filled with bored prisoners trying to make the time pass. The Colonel was cheerfully doing that annoying routine where he threw a baseball onto a roof and caught it as it rolled down; he'd chosen the guards' barracks for the honor of a continual medley of thuds, rattles, and thumps, which probably accounted for the happy smile on his face and the vicious glitter in his eye. Kinch, Garlotti, and the latest iteration of 'Houlihan' were effortlessly trouncing Carter, Baker, and Olsen at basketball. LeBeau wasn't entirely sure why Mills and Pike were doing handstands, but it looked as though the other POWs were betting on which one of them could stay upside down the longest without blacking out, because after few months inside the wire, that sort of thing started to sound like a fine idea. And the glee club was belting out a spirited rendition of 'Der Fuhrer's Face,' complete with sound effects, fake German accents, and three part disharmony, directly under the window of the Kommandantur, which would probably result in an explosion in a verse or two.

Newkirk was playing horseshoes with a few of the men from Barracks Eight. He grinned when he caught sight of LeBeau. "Oi! Louie. Just the fellow I was hoping to see. These fine chaps seem to be under the impression that the point of the game is to make sure nothing scratches the paint on the stake. Shall we show them how it's done?"

"Not today," said LeBeau, and kept walking. "Maybe some other time."

Newkirk cocked his head thoughtfully. "Fair enough," he said. He handed the bunch of horseshoes to the nearest POW. "Here. You lot could use the practice. I've never seen such a sorry performance."

On principle, Newkirk didn't hurry if he had any choice in the matter; running looked suspicious, which made people wonder—or worse, investigate— what you'd been up to, and who needed that? Certainly not a thief, and even more certainly not a saboteur. So he didn't hurry, but he had long since mastered the art of lazily covering quite a bit of distance in a surprisingly short time. With his longer legs, he caught up with LeBeau almost at once. "Surprisingly decent weather we've been having lately," he said. "I don't trust it. What do you think we're in for—a hurricane, or a blizzard?"

"Probably both," LeBeau said, and speeded up a bit. If there was anything he wanted less than a game of horseshoes, small talk was surely it.

"Sounds about right," Newkirk agreed, effortlessly keeping pace with him.

How did he manage to move so quickly in a saunter, damn it all? His legs weren't _that_ much longer, LeBeau thought irritably. He kept his mouth firmly shut and veered towards the dogs' enclosure.

"Schnitzer was here changing the dogs the day before yesterday," Newkirk said. "It seems Heidi's in the pudding club, so he'll be keeping her at home until the blessed event."

"How nice for her," LeBeau said, walking past the pen without even slowing down.

"I thought so," Newkirk said, and followed suit. "Pretty sure it was nice for Herman, too. Remember him, the big fellow with the torn ear? Depending on the size of the litter, she might be up for the Mutterkreuz. They could hang it from her collar; that would look nice."

"_Oui._ Very nice," said LeBeau, in a tone of voice that made it clear that he could not possibly care less. This, he decided, was no time for half-measures. He made a sharp right turn, and began heading towards the delousing shed. Everyone understood that the spot behind the delousing shed meant leave-me-alone. Respecting that shred of pseudo-privacy was yet another of the unwritten rules that kept them from one another's throats.

Everyone understood that.

…Apparently _not_ everyone understood that. Newkirk followed him, pausing only long enough to light a cigarette. His silence was eloquent. And loud.

LeBeau surrendered.

He made an irritated face, a come-on gesture with his hand, and stalked back towards the barracks with his shadow at his heels. It was blessedly empty at this time of the day, and he slumped onto a bench with a sigh. Newkirk sat on another and pulled an ashtray a bit closer. More silence.

"I abandoned you," LeBeau said baldly, after a moment. "All of you. If Marie had not been captured, if _le Colonel_ had not come to ask me to cook one last dinner… I would have left without ever looking back."

"Yeah," said Newkirk. "You did, and you would've, and what of it?"

"What of it? What _of_ it? Pierre—I nearly destroyed the entire operation! You could all have been killed because _I_ wanted to have some heroic story to tell my children! I—"

"You went where you felt you were needed. Where you felt you could do the most good. You honestly think that anyone here's going to fault you for that? As for us, we'd've managed; don't fret yourself about that. The Guv always thinks of something. You didn't do anything wrong."

"I went because I was tired of catering Klink's dinner parties," he said bitterly. "It was not as if I did not recognize that the information we received from those parties was more valuable than anything one soldier more or less could do on the battlefield."

"Depends on the soldier. And the circumstances. And the quality of the information, but I see your point," Newkirk said. "Can't say that I've been enjoying those ruddy parties all that much myself."

Newkirk, after all, had been spending most of those evenings hiding under Klink's guest-room bed with a lockpick in one hand and an empty briefcase in the other; LeBeau and Carter had at least had legitimate reasons for being in the building, not to mention an opportunity to graze on the leftovers.

"Well, I am very sorry to hear that, because now that I am back in the kitchen, there will probably be many more of them," said LeBeau.

"Maybe. I suppose if you _really_ want to put an abrupt end to the festivities, you could always try slipping about a pint of castor oil into the salad dressing, or something like that," Newkirk said.

LeBeau couldn't help himself; he snorted a bit at the thought of it. "Never! I may not like cooking for _Boche_, but there is such a thing as professional pride."

"Oh, come now. It's not like anyone could blame you, or even suspect your food; spending an entire evening with Klink would turn anyone's stomach."

"That is certainly true. Listening to his voice does nothing good for _my_ digestion. Or worse… his violin."

"Ugh, just had to remind me of that ruddy violin, did you?" Newkirk pulled a face. "Really, if you think about it, anyone unfortunate enough to be sitting at Klink's table would probably be very grateful for an excuse to leave the room for a while. A _long_ while. Good career move, too."

"How so?"

"Simple. Last time a German started spewing that much shit, they made him Fuhrer. Lightning might strike twice."

That little mental image was too much; it actually dragged a chuckle out of LeBeau. "That is actually a good reason _not_ to do any such thing, then. I would hate to be responsible for helping a Kraut achieve promotion."

"That's reasonable," Newkirk allowed. "All right; no castor oil. We'll both just have to grin and bear it until they decide that not even one of your dinners is worth spending another evening with Klink. No one's that much of a masochist; it can't be _too_ much longer."

"Of course it will," said LeBeau. "Or if it is not this guest, it will be another. I will probably spend the rest of the war making crepes Suzette. There will always be one more general, one more distinguished scientist, one more girl, one more _Boche_ who Klink wishes to impress. There will always be one more dinner for me to cook. Always one more strudel to bake."

"You're right," Newkirk said. "There will. Because the Colonel's always going to be running one more con, and you're going to be the one he sets out for bait at least half the time. Lucky you."

"I am not the bait. My food is the bait, and I am tired of being the one who sits safely in the kitchen and sifts flour while the rest of you fight a war."

"They also serve who only stand and bake," Newkirk misquoted. "If it's any consolation, mate, I can bloody well guarantee that if one of the cons ever goes wrong, they'll be putting you up against the exact same wall as the rest of us. Being the diversion isn't what you'd call an extenuating circumstance."

"It is no great honor, either."

"Oh. I see. So this is about medals and bragging rights?"

"No!" That hurt. It was a little too close to being true. "It is about being able to say that I did my part. About _knowing_ that I did my part."

"Louie, that's the one thing none of us will ever have to worry about. We'll never get the credit for it, but we're doing our parts and then some. You especially."

"Why me especially? What risk is involved in making vichyssoise?"

"A good bit less than there is in _eating_ it, I'll grant you that much."

"Barbarian."

"And proud of it. But you're not just making soup, you know. You're getting up close and personal with the bastards, keeping their attention on you, and that means that if things go tits-up, you're the first one they'll nick. You've got nowhere to hide. Any more good news you'd like to hear?"

"That was good news?"

"We're having this conversation in a bleeding _Nazi prison camp_, mate. Adjust your expectations accordingly."

LeBeau shrugged, unconvinced.

"When you think about it, mate, we're two sides of the same coin. You and me; we're the Colonel's two best distractions. And not in any sort of disguise, either. Just us, doing a softshoe number and juggling knives while spinning plates, keeping the Krauts looking square at us while the real magic happens behind their backs."

"I know, I know. And if I do not keep filling those plates, we lose a source of information."

"Not what I meant, and don't be so bloody literal. Remember when the Colonel needed a brilliant chemist to assist that collaborator? Who'd he pick to play the part?"

"That was only because it needed to be someone French," LeBeau argued.

"Right. And the time he needed a fashion designer? Or an interior decorator? Or a big game hunter? Or a magazine photographer? Or a psychic? Or a dance instructor? Shall I go on?"

"I would much rather you didn't," LeBeau said. Teaching Hochstetter to waltz had not been a high point in his military career, and it was a memory he tried to revisit as little as possible.

"Being a chef isn't all that bad by comparison, eh?" Newkirk quirked an eyebrow. "Still, whenever Hogan needs someone to sound like an expert on something sophisticated, it's a safe bet he's going to be looking straight at you. And it isn't just because you're French. It's because you're sharp enough to pull it off."

"I suppose you are right," he said.

"I know I'm right. Think of it this way. It could always be worse. At least _you_ get to be the one Hogan trots out when he needs to offer the Krauts a carrot. You're the one with talents that make you valuable. Whereas _my_ moments in the limelight always seem to involve being disciplined for one reason or another. Colonel Hogan's called me up on the carpet so many times there's a worn spot in the shape of my boots right in front of old Klinkie's desk."

"Pfft. You exaggerate."

"If you say so. Remember the time he asked Klink's permission to have me shot? And then _argued_ _the point_ when our dear Kommandant refused to let him do it?"

"I do wonder what he would have done if Klink had been a little more reasonable," said LeBeau, mock-thoughtfully.

"I do too. Usually around three in the morning."

LeBeau smiled, then sighed. "So, _mon pote,_ what you are telling me is that I should go back in the kitchen and stop complaining."

"Hell, no. Complain all you like; it's always better to get it off your chest. I'm telling you that if you're worried about not doing your bit, stop worrying. You are."

"I suppose."

"But face facts. You don't have to like it, but the Guv'nor's not going to stop asking you to cook for Klink, any more than he's going to stop asking Carter to dress up like a Kraut, or stop asking me to half-inch things."

"Yes, but both of those are… important. If I were not there to cook, _le Colonel_ would think of some other distraction. If you were not there to open safes, no distraction in the world would be of the least use."

Newkirk cocked his head. "Hmm. You may be right, at that," he said thoughtfully.

"I know I'm right," LeBeau said in wry imitation.

"Then the answer's simple enough," said Newkirk. "Want to learn how to steal?"

LeBeau blinked. "…What?"

"You heard me. If you'd like to have a go at it, then I'll do my best to teach you what Alfie taught me."

"You would?"

"Why not? The Colonel would be over the moon if you learned the trick; having another peterman on the payroll could only come in handy. I can't be everywhere at once, you know."

"A peterman? What is that?"

"Safecracker. Old, old slang, that is. Alfie got a bit of a laugh out of turning a Peter into a peterman; said it had to be fate."

"Perhaps he was right. _Oui_, I would very much like to learn to be a peterman. Thank you."

"Quite welcome. Just never try to teach me how to cook again; that's all I ask."

"I would not. There are some things beyond my power, and turning you into a chef is one of them."

"We've all got things beyond our power. That's actually something I want to make clear before we start," Newkirk said. "I'm willing to teach you what I know. But if I don't think you can cut the mustard, I'll tell you so. And then I'll tell the Colonel, too. This isn't the sort of thing the Krauts give you two chances to learn, and I won't be responsible for sending you to your death just for pride's sake. That fair?"

LeBeau thought about that, and swallowed hard. "That is fair," he conceded.

"Good. Then we have a bargain," said Newkirk. "Now that's settled, shall we have that game of horseshoes?"

"Not yet," said LeBeau. "First, I must do something about the coffeepot. It smells worse than Carter's chemical lab. Probably deadlier, too."

"Good to have you back, mate," said Newkirk, grinning.

LeBeau didn't smile back. "Pierre… I really did abandon all of you. And I am sorry for it."

"Don't be. I'm sorry you had to come back to this hellhole."

"I am too. But I am glad that I did." LeBeau met his eyes for a moment, then deliberately shifted the mood away from sentiment before Newkirk could get too uncomfortable. It was enough; both of them heard all the things they weren't saying. "You would have poisoned yourselves within a month otherwise."

"True," Newkirk agreed. "Whereas _you_ can poison us within a week."

"Do not tempt me, _mon ami_. Do not tempt me!"

*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: LeBeau really was Hogan's go-to guy for the more specialized peacetime professions. Klink, fortunately, never seemed to question Hogan's assertion that LeBeau was a noted expert in eight or ten separate fields. With regards to the skills he actually possessed, so far as I can remember, LeBeau only gets to crack a safe once, in 'Man in a Box.' Seeing as how they had an established safecracker on the team already, I wondered why he was given that mission; this is my explanation for how and why he picked up the skill. LeBeau does spend a lot of screentime kvetching about how he wants to do more than just cook all the time, and it's hard not to sympathize.

Newkirk's misquote, 'They also serve who only stand and wait,' is from John Milton's Sonnet 19. His entirely justified complaint about Hogan's attempt to have him executed is from the episode 'Bombsight.'

The Mutterkreuz ('Mother's Cross') was a medal given to German women who produced large numbers of children. Heidi, given the attitudes of the Stalag 13 guard dogs towards the Third Reich, would probably not have appreciated it.


End file.
